Lately I've realized that I'm heavily censoring what I write on this blog. I mean, to the point where I'm not blogging very often because everything that I would talk about seems somehow too private or inappropriate for my audience. And it's nagging at me, because part of the reason I started this thing was as a journal, as a way for me to talk about what's important to me, about how I feel about things. It wasn't meant to be smart, or even have important things to say, and yet all the things I want to say, I can't say.
It's partly because I am ever aware that my entire immediate family reads this, and I'm just not up to writing things here that I couldn't say to them, and those things exist. (They exist in every family, every group of friends, don't they?) I'm also cognizant that those people deserve privacy, they deserve to not have to face up to their lives plastered on the internets. And S. As much as I blog about him, I'm sure I could blog more. But it's incredibly unfair of me to air our most private lives on this blog, as much as sometimes I need an outlet for those thoughts and feelings.
As I've said recently, I'm in a very self-involved period of my life. Things haven't been so great, all around, and even though I'm basically happy, and have moments of joy, some things just aren't right. It's hard to write this sort of blog when you are at the depths of self-involvment, when you're being introspective to a point that it sometimes makes you uncomfortable. If I can't admit certain things to myself, how can I type them up here? And if I'm grappling with some of the closest relationships in my life, how can I bring that here? I can't. It seems like those are the only two things I am doing these days: thinking about myself and then thinking about myself and someone else and how we relate.
I'm still reading, and consuming popular culture, but it's been taking a back-seat to all the other crap. In fact, I'm in a bit of a reading crisis so big that I'm currently reading From Dawn To Decadence, which is, let it be said, a very big, excellent book. I'm sure. But the fact that I can't read for entertainment (because make no mistake about it, this book is not entertainment, not in the purest sense of the word) should say something about where I am mentally.
And the hits just keep on coming.
Let's be clear here, loved ones. I'm not depressed, so you don't have to be scared. It's not like that last time, when I could barely get out of bed. It's nothing so bad as that. And S and I are fine, absolutely. But life seems to ebb and flow, to expand and contract, to move through hills and valleys, and well, I'm in a little bit of a valley right now. These things move on, I know, so I'm certain I'll be fine in a few days, or a few weeks. But I'm probably not the best company ever, and if I seem distracted, well, I probably am.
(I think a cupcake might help.) (Kidding.)
Seriously. Lest you worry, it's nothing dire. I'm just a little less cheerful right now. That's all.
(Ten points if you can finish the quote that's the title of this post, and another ten if you can tell me where it comes from and who said/wrote it. Please be honest and don't google.)
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